the forgotten (43rd annual hunger games)
by radieux
Summary: 24/24 spots filled. "You think this is a game, do you? And now you want me to agree with you, tell you there's no way that you're going to lose. You've been trained your whole life for this. Let me tell you something. That means nothing in the arena. Good luck, kid. Nice knowing you." Closed, feel free to follow along!
1. Begin

As the anguished cry of a single family member rose into the silence above the stage, President Clare closed her eyes in close concentration, a smile faintly rising the corners of her lips.

The hunger games had begun again.

(read on to discover: the forgotten 43rd annual hunger games)


	2. Reference (final tribute list)

FINAL TRIBUTE LIST

**THE FORGOTTEN, TRIBUTE LIST (submitter)**

**DISTRICT 1:**

**F: Lace Radcliffe (17)**

**M: Anatase Rhodochrosite (16)**

**DISTRICT 2:**

**F: Breccia Schist (15)**

**M: Chase Rivars (18)**

**DISTRICT 3:**

**F: Sorcha Jonston (18)**

**M: Lane Green (18)**

**DISTRICT 4:**

**F: Cordelia Morgan (16)  
**

**M: Marlin Madison (17)**

**DISTRICT 5:**

**F: Korka Lingenie (17)**

**M: Switch Ransom (17)**

**DISTRICT 6:**

**F: Tessa Leven (14)**

**M: Porter Wild (14)**

**DISTRICT 7:**

**F: Marillin Kazis (15)**

**M: Aspen Hew (15)**

**DISTRICT 8:**

**F: Saeko Ragefire (16)**

**M: Lukas Tailor (18)**

**DISTRICT 9:**

**F: Celia Macorle (15)**

**M: Alexei Ivashkov (18)**

**DISTRICT 10:**

**F: Salta Mansone (17)**

**M: Markus Lavigne (12)**

**DISTRICT 11:**

**F: Acacia Willows (13)**

**M: Dante Spardat (16)**

**DISTRICT 12:**

**F: Carminilia Darlucan (18)**

**M: Peat Sarrow (12)**


	3. Nascent (reapings i, districts 1-3)

**The Reapings pt.1**

**Districts 1-3**

**1**

**_Lace Radcliffe (17) _**

I close my eyes for half a second, trying to retain the same verve that I had been training with all day. I had reached the end of my daily allotment of dummies, and this meant it was time for me to show my best attack for the video-robotic trainer. It would watch carefully, tracking even the slightest of movements. With a ferocious glint in my eye (even facial expressions are tracked), I leap towards the dummy, first with my not-quite-sword-length knife ready. Anticipating my move, the dummy swings to the side, brandishing it's own version of my knife. It's a projected weapon, so if it slices through me it won't leave a physical mark, but it'll have a big impact on my score for the day. Loosing points today won't matter; I've already been chosen, but any marks off will give my peers ammunition to criticize the director's choice.

It's not like they don't already.

I'm not absolutely sure if I was the best choice, but I know I was at least among the best of the best. My crossbow target training has set me directly behind the trainer on the ranked list, and my first aid skills top all career trainees' I have yet to meet. On top of that, my general appeal and they way I milk it makes me a top choice. Call me conceited, but the world never sees this side of me. To them, I am an angel, through and through.

Getting my thoughts back on the fight at hand, I pull my crossbow off of my arm and quickly send an arrow into the dummie's heart. The robotic heartbeat slows and the dummie sinks to the ground. Not wanting to get a mercy deduction, I leap forward and sink my knife into its neck, watching it's health meter go from severe to past saving. Unsticking the knife, I keep one eye on the score screen as it completes my final score.

"Lace Radcliffe. Your score of the day is 9.432. Deductions include loss of eye concentration and minute lack of precision in your killing blow."

Sighing, I haul myself to my feet. It's a great score, better than I usually get, but it would have been nice for me to get over a 9.499. Then my score would be rounded up to 10, and who could find issues with that? Oh well. I'm leaving a tad earlier than the other trainee's, but sense I'm slotted for the female tribute of the year; the trainer at the front desk lets me leave with a nod. No exclamations of good luck, or congratulations follow me out onto the street; most of my year and nearly all of the eighteen-year-old females now face me in scorn, if they hadn't already. Those who have hated me before now deride me at a higher level. Likely, a handful will try and take the spot from me but carefully, carefully. The director is not blind to the most ambitious, and will likely pay off another of the same year to hold them down if they dare call out the sacred two words. And most likely, some will. Especially the ones I've manipulated, the ones I've screwed over for nothing but the fun of the challenge.

If all goes well, I'll be the one standing on that stage.

Scratch that.

I _will_ be the one standing on that stage. And I'm not going to let _anyone_ stand in my way.

**2**

**_Heathcliffe Sarutobi, Mentor of District 2, Victor of the 25_****_th_****_ annual hunger games_**

Today marks the 18th year anniversary of my very own reaping. Ever since then I've been immersed in the games. I've mentored ten times alongside Amite, a female mentor who won five years after I. Really, we both prefer to mentor as it leaves less time open for President Snow to schedule in "appointments", as he says. Putting it in simpler terms, on a mentoring year I can only serve five clients at the most. On a regular visitor year President Snow will try and cram in twenty. For Amite, it's worse. She's not young (thirty-one), but she still retains her youth, with the long flowing black hair and the intelligent green eyes. Clearly the attractive women also get the most competitive suitors.

Together we've managed to bring home four victors. The latest is Brutus Marshade, who won the forty-second hunger games at the age of seventeen. He sits beside me now, he won't be mentoring just yet. No, the recent victors are in high demand, and his nights will be filled with women, sometimes two at a time. The rest of the recent victors are seated farther down. In total, our numbers reach eleven. One more and the village will be full. On my other side sits Soren, my elder brother. He has no reason to fear these games. His twin fourteen-year-old daughters are in the reaping, but even if one of them were picked, someone would volunteer. That's the nature of things in district two.

Caught up in my own thoughts, I realize that the treaty of treason is finally over and Ikea, our district escort is reading out the female name in a crisp voice.

"Marble Sarutobi." By an odd strike of fate, the name read out is one of Soren's twins, but there is no point in worrying. There is already several girls making a break for the stage. I'm almost positive that this small blonde girl that appears to be made entirely of muscle is going to make it onto the stage first, but then I see a tall girl with curly brown hair knock her over and block the stairs as she scrambles up. I happen to glance over to my left at Soren, and I see Max Schist smiling as the girl breaths her name into the microphone, smiling proudly. Of course. This must be his daughter. The one he's oh-so-proud of. The one that's sure to win the games. Her name's Breccia, I'm almost positive.

"Breccia Schist." She confirms, smiling, although you could hardly call it a smile. It's a cool, calculated thing, and there's no crinkle next to her eyelids.

"Aren't you just so honored to participate?" Ikea gushes, and shoves the microphone back into her face.

"As much as the next tribute." Breccia says smoothly, this time the words come without a smile.

"Ah! Speaking of that!" Ikea is so fast, I hardly have time to speculate about who will volunteer before she's reading another name.

"Sarl Freebyrd." She calls, and I see movement in the eighteen-year-old section towards the back. A short dark-skinned boy is making a break for the stage, gleefully smiling. This must be Sarl. Pure coincidence he was picked, I assume, as this boy is clearly trained.

As I watch, a lankier blonde boy with toned runners legs overtakes him. There's no hope for Sarl, as this boy is gruffly screaming, "I volunteer! I volunteer!" There are others in the back saying the same thing, but Ikea is already focused on the blonde boy. She extends the microphone to him.

"I'm Chase Rivars."

"Wonderful, wonderful!" Ikea says thoughtfully. "Now, quickly; before this broadcast is over," she's rushing her words, "are you both eighteen?"

"Not even!" Breccia declares arrogantly. "I'm sixteen, and I'm going to win it all."

"Sure." Chase snorts. "I'm eighteen. I'm going to be the one that wins it all. You'll be the one sent back in a box." Two seats over from me, Max Schist inhales sharply.

"And that concludes the reaping of the day!" Ikea says quickly, and I realize our allotted thirty minutes are nearly up. It's nine twenty-seven, and this means that the District three reaping will begin in three minutes. It's not like anyone here considers that reaping important, but Ikea supposedly could be docked pay if she lets our reaping run over.

A few minutes later, the cameras are off and all of the mentors are standing to leave the stage. I can hear a distinct sigh from Amite a few tributes down. I have no reason to blame her. The hunger games have begun again. In a week, I'll be working my ass off, trying to keep one of these two alive. If the girl dies under my watch, you can bet your hat that Max will at least partially blame me.

That's the nature of things as a victor. It's never an easy time.

**3**

**_Sorcha Jonston (18) Kiliflower_**

"And to switch it up, why don't we pull the male name first!" Paxor, the district escort calls, obviously waiting for applause. He only gets some from the richer half to the district, most without children, which stick to the side of the huge square closest to the fountain. My mother is on the other side, among other anxious parents. They don't clap, and of course, neither do the tributes.

I'm not extremely worried about my chances. I'm eighteen, which is the year of highest probability, but I've only had to take two tesserae every year. Most of the people in my class have bigger families than I do. I heard rumors that district three was third in the amount of tesserae per tribute in all of panem. Just below twelve and thirteen. Isn't that sad? We're one of the inner districts, but somehow we get skipped over in favor of one, two and four. Even some of the middle-district (5,6,7 & 8) kids look better fed than our tributes each year. But, anyway, I only have thirty-three entries. My odds aren't too bad with a glass bowl of slips numbering well over a hundred thousand.

"Lane Green!" Paxor exclaims with verve, and I can't help myself: I crane my neck to see who this boy is. There are more than eight hundred kids in every age section here, and it's hard to spot him at first. He shambles out from the male eighteen-year olds and I raise my eyebrows. The kid can't be eighteen. I would put money on him being less than four and a half feet tall. Probably the poor unfortunate twelve year old got confused or tried to hide behind the big kids. He's reaching the stage now, and I turn my head towards Paxor again, narrowing my eyes. The statistics are with me through and through, but still I try and ready myself just in case, just in case.

"And for the female tribute!" Paxor says smoothly into the microphone, her Lilly green hair glinting unnaturally in the early day sun.

"Soar-che Jonstone!" She calls and for a second I relax, and then I realize she called me. She called me. She called me.

I'm going into the hunger games.

No. I'm in the hunger games. I can't show any weakness, not now. Thankfully school has given me practice in masking my emotions and I do that now as I clamber up next to the small surely a twelve-year-old boy next to me.

"This is great! Two strong," the escort coughs on the word, "eighteen-year-old tributes to represent district three in the forty-third hunger games! Give them a hand!"

As the hollow, relieved claps of everyone in the audience echo off of the town center, I look out into the crowd and its amazing how quickly I find my mother. She has her head up and she's looking straight into my eyes. Once the initial shock that she's not crying or even looking upset passes, I get the message she's trying to convey.

_The past eighteen years I've spent keeping you alive will not be in vain. _

I slowly nod and answer with a look of my own.

_Watch me._

* * *

**So a bit different than the past! I've decided to flesh out the reapings a bit more. So far, what reaping was your favorite? **

**sp**

****sorry this took a little bit longer than expected!**


	4. Deluge (reapings ii, districts 4-6)

**The Reapings pt.2**

**Districts 4-6**

**4**

**_Marlin Madison (17) flintlightning_**

Moving my feet restlessly, I dance around in my spot as people jostle around me, filling in the spaces in the seventeen-year old sector. All of the age sections are lined up in a semi-circle around the stage, unlike the other districts we see on TV. This means that I have more or less of an equal chance to make it to the stages before one of the eighteen year olds do.

People had laughed when I had all but announced that I was volunteering for the hunger games. The simple sentence had spread itself throughout our training center, eliciting laughter from all. "Oh look at the practically blind boy. He thinks he's going to make it to the stage first, let alone win the hunger games."

Then I had picked up a handful of spears and knocked down ten dummies in a matter of thirty seconds. That had shut them up.

It's not like my eyesight's that bad, anyway. It's bad enough that I would never be picked to volunteer by the Head Trainer, but it's not like I have a disability. Things are just a little bit blurry. Sometimes.

My family isn't the worst off in the district, but we surely aren't rich enough to afford glasses. And, besides-

The feedback of the microphone breaks me out of my thoughts and I refocus my attention on the stage. I must be focused if I am to outrun the crowd. Apparently the training center had a big boost in popularity ten years ago, and most of the people in the sixteen, seventeen and eighteen sectors are trained. The hunger games must have seemed glamorous to most parents, or maybe the winnings were too great to resist. Never mind that their children might not win. It was far more likely (notice the sarcasm) in their minds that their children would win.

My parents never pushed me too hard to train, even though they enrolled my sister and I at the earliest age possible to train. My sister, Marina, volunteered at her own will; which delighted my career-trained-but-never-volunteered parents. They became ecstatic once Marina won. Finally the Madison clan had a victor to call his or her own. Due to this, the slight pressure on my shoulders to volunteer vanished, but I still felt the urge to win. In fact, Marina's victory only added to my desire. Imagine the supremacy! I would be just like the knights in shining armor from my old collection of books. I would be revered alongside the other forty-two victors from times past.

And nothing could beat that.

**5**

**_Korka Linginie (17) Lighty 7_**

"Korka Linginie!" As the voice echoes around the warehouse, I stare around in confusion. Surely they couldn't have just called my name. It's simply not possible!

"Come on up, dear!" The escort's tone makes it seem like the most wondrous thing in the world. I shuffle my feet, confused in what I want to do. After a few seconds, I duck my head, thinking that no one will see me. They will call a different name, surely, after no one steps forward.

"Korka Lingine! Seventeen?" Calls the escort again, and I duck my head further. There are plenty of people who live in District five who look like me. They will have no way of telling who I am.

"Korka?" The escort's call is now tinged with annoyance, and my thoughts make a screeching U-turn. I've totally forgotten! This is the hunger games. Why wouldn't I want my name to be called, anyway? I glance up at the stage and consider my options. If I stay here, they'll call someone else (I think) and then they'll go to the hunger games. If they win, they'll be famous! Hang on; I don't want anyone else to be famous but me!

With this thought on my mind, I brightly call out "Here!" And then I merrily make my way to the stage. The escort seems to be momentarily confused, but then she returns to business. My beauty must have reassured her, yes this is it.

"And for the male tribute… Before I call the name can I remind all of those in the reaping pool that making your way to the stage in a timely matter is required?" She says with a grimace. I think her name is Bleuski.

Anyway, Bleuski continues towards the glass ball holding the male slips and plucks one out with her long skinny fingers.

"Switch Ransom!" My jaw drops. I know this name, I think. I can't remember exactly how.

As the boy emerges from the seventeen-year-old segment opposite of mine, I recognize him. We used to date, I think, a while back. This is just great! I have a hot tribute partner! This will make the games even more fun!

"District five, may I present your district five representatives for the forty-third annual hunger games!"

The district automatically claps and my I smile with glee. I'm already famous, see? Since they're clapping for me now, imagine what they'll do when I come back victorious from the hunger games! I can just imagine it now. It's going to be great.

**6**

**_Porter Wild (14) katnissandpeetaforever12_**

The pinch I feel in my finger as the capitol woman dressed in a white baggy suit collects my blood and automatically checks me as present at the reaping only adds to my slight feeling of unease. This is my third reaping, and each time I come here the energy is worse. I don't know if it's just my feelings, or the fact that I have more chips in the picking bowl each year. This year it's four.

The second year I was in the reaping I took a tesserae, because I feared for my father's ability to keep working to his full capacity after we lost Potter. The grain proved to be unnecessary, and I ended up giving most of it away to the poorer section of the district because grain doesn't keep forever. The oil proved to be useful though, as my mother went through a grieving stage in which she only wished to write down everything she remembered about Potter at night. I figured out a way to rig an oil lamp so it ran on cooking oil. It was the only way she'd be able to see her words, the district electricity shut off (except for the charge that ran the night factories) at ten thirty each night.

The lamp didn't use much oil, however, and there's never been need for me to take any more tesserae. For that, I am glad. I would prefer not to gamble my safety away for a few scraps of extra food. Especially since my family is better off, it seems ridiculous to take anything from the capitol we don't need.

As I take my spot in the fourteen-year-old sector next to a boy I vaguely remember from school, I push my gray shirt up so my elbows. It is unnaturally warm today in District six. Could this be a good omen? Surely not, two children are going to be sent to their death today. Reaping day can never be anything more than evil. I still remember with vivid detail this day three years ago, when they had called Potter Wild up to the stage. At first, I had been struck with fear, thinking that they had called my name. When I realized they hadn't made the sound of an 'R' I was flooded with immense relief, and then shame. My twin brother was going off to the games as a twelve year old. Collectively we had two slips in thousands. How could this happen to us, I thought all that night. Eventually realized there was no use speculating, I changed my focus to praying that Porter would get out alive. Never mind that there had never been a twelve-year-old victor, even from one of the career districts.

Hope can do amazing things to people's minds. And tragedy can do the exact opposite. That's what happened to my mother. I was close to falling into the hole of wretchedness after her, but I managed to pull myself together. It wasn't like mother would notice what state I was in, but I still tried to stay strong for her. I tried to let her know that she still had a son.

A few minutes later, they're calling the male tribute's name. It's me. I have been chosen to go into the hunger games. How could this happen?

As I stand on the stage with my female counterpart I realize this too is no time for speculation. This is time for reality.

* * *

**Who was your favorite featured tribute in this chapter? How about in all of districts 1-6? **

**Sorry if this was a little rushed, but reapings are my least favorite part of the games and I'd rather have them over with sooner than later. Thankfully that was my last volunteer to write so it should be smooth sailing from this out (I can't really understand careers, let alone write their reapings :-p)**

***dangles points over reader's heads***

**remember 1 review = 1 point! all non-submitting reviewers get points as well, which can be used to sponsor tributes down the road!**

**thoughts? rants? concerns? raves? let me know!**  
**bridget/radieux/splendeur**


	5. Audacity (reapings iii, districts 7-9)

**The Reapings pt.3**

**Districts 7-9**

**7**

**Aspen Hew (15) ****_callie0612_**

"Ma!" I sigh, leaning against the doorframe of our house. I like my house. It isn't the nicest in town; but that's the thing: at least it's in town. And it's in the good part of town; mind you, the part to the left of Town Center. The right side isn't a place you'd like to frequent. I should know, my school is composed almost completely of the right side kids. They might rule by majority, but not by good hygiene.

I jump yet again as I'm waiting for my mother's response. The rumble of a rickety old bus procession has startled me. They have to bus the outer kids in for reaping days. Some live 40, 50 miles away: far too long a distance to walk. Half of them wouldn't make it.

It's amazing how many kids are actually from the outer district area. District seven is the second largest district in all of Panem. Our outer gates stretch around what they told us in school was two whole states, back in the time before the Dark Age. Of course, they didn't tell us where in relations to the capitol we live, but somehow the word got passed up that we live not too far away from District Four.

I don't live on a big street, but already I've seen five buses roll by, headed out of town. There's no way they could put all four thousand kids in Town Center. No, instead, they make use of a wide meadow a fifteen-minute walk from my house. It can be pleasant. Sometimes I take girls there with me.

I don't think my ma knows just how many girls I've messed around with. I don't even know, really. If you'd ask me, I'd say about thirty. They say there isn't much beauty in this district, but clearly I'm an example of the elusive quality. They don't call me girl bait for nothing. Just kidding, I don't think anyone actually calls me that.

I wonder if a girl I know (and by know I mean _know_) will be picked. The chances are four to one that it'll be some hick from the outer ring that no one knows. Most likely, her family will be at home, they need all the buses for the kids in the reaping pool. Sadly, this means most of the district seven tributes will be sent off without a goodbye. Poor them.

"I'm coming. We are not going to be late." My mother whines. I know reaping day is one of the most boring days out of the year for her. Neither I, nor my twin siblings have ever had to take tesserae, even though money gets tight at times.

We will not get picked. We will simply have to waste about an hour of our lives sending off two hicks with a half-hearted round of clapping.

What a waste of time, you know?

**8**

**Nicely Peakpat (capitol citizen) (14) ****_radieux_**

I settle down into the giant couch, stretching out my artificially natural long legs as to claim it. I'm not sharing the good couch today. Sweetly, Gladly and Sassily will have to find another. It won't be hard, our TV room contains half a dozen couches.

Sweetly and Gladly skid into the room seconds after I claim it, both fighting and running simultaneously. Gladly howls something unintelligible as Sweetly sticks her finger up his nose. They're twelve, but you wouldn't know it by looking at them.

"Aww!" Gladly whines when he sees me on the couch. "You always get the good couch!"

"I'm oldest." I remind them.

"No, Honestly is!" Sweetly sadly sits down on the next best couch, grudgingly making space so Gladly can sit next to her.

"Honestly doesn't care about the couch wars." I say smoothly, just as Sassily runs into the room.

"No fair!" The ten year old brat howls. "I thought you couldn't get here early!"

"No one ever said that."

"Fine!" Sassily (we usually call her Sassy, because that's who she is) crosses her arms and sits at my feet. The word is hardly out of her mouth before the room automatically dims, just as Honestly and my parents walk in.

Honestly is sixteen, my older brother. He's training to inherit my father's fortune, so he typically doesn't sit with us. All four of us "lesser siblings" are thankful. Our parents should have named him Stuck-up-idly instead. Or Annoyingly. Either would work.

"Dear, do we honestly have to watch district eight?" As typical, my mother is trying to wheedle my father into letting her skip the reapings. She quite enjoys the one's from six-thirty AM (district one) to nine-thirty AM (district five). Those are interesting to her. The rest are throwaways, to her.

Suddenly trumpets blare and I immerse myself in the reaping footage. Soon enough, they're calling the names and I'm oh so excited.

"Paislie Korque!" Spots Macaaro, the district escort, screams in glee, before tucking the pink ends of her hair behind her shoulders. I honestly love her hair. It's pink and purple ombrè, and it's so smooth I can't tell one hair from another. Mother calls it greasy, but I don't care. I think Mother is jealous, because all she has is boring black hair, like I do.

I spot the skinny girl with pale white-blonde hair shuffling up to the stage from the fifteen year old section. I can't wait to see her be all fixed up! I think she'll be really pretty once she comes here!

I'm lost in my imaginations, trying to decide what color hair would look good on her (other than that sickly blonde) that I hardly notice when someone howls, "I volunteer."

"Um." Spots readjusts her hair before speaking again. "It looks like we have… a volunteer? Um, please come forward, then?"

I strain my eyes, trying to help the cameraman locate the volunteer as he whips the point of view around. Finally he sees a small shape (shorter than I am) emerge from the sixteen-year-old wedge of the reaping pool.

"State your name."

"Saeko Ragefire."

The girl has dull strawberry-blonde hair, dark eyes (green?) and a wicked smile on her face. She's wearing a tatty white strapless dress that bulges at the chest and the butt, and even though she wears an expression of insanity, boys are still staring at her as she sashays up to the stage. Whether in fear or lust, that's hard to tell. I particularly notice one boy in the front quivering in fear as she climbs onto the stage in front of him.

The boy's name is called (Lukas Tailor, a boy who is particularly somber compared to Saeko. I hardly pay attention to him, because I'm still trying to puzzle this girl out.

What is her story?

Oh, yes, this is going to be an interesting hunger games.

**9**

**Alexei Ivashkov (18)****_ xdisgraceful avengerx_**

_"Let's switch it up a bit, shall we?" The escort (she's new this year) crows. "Boys first! Let's see what strong, handsome young will be representing district nine in the most exciting event of the year!" _

_"Alexei Ivashkov!" _

No. No. No. Nononononononononononononononononononono. This can't be happening. Not to me. I've been careful. This is my last year. I haven't taken any of their food!

Somewhere in the back of my muddled mind realizes that people are stepping away from me. I will soon be clearly identified by the peacekeepers and dragged up to the stairs. I don't want that to happen. I still have to fight, somehow.

I slowly stand up straight and try and walk in a straight line with my head up. This is clearly a mistake, because before I can push my way out of the eighteen-year-olds I trip and nearly fall to my face on the dirt. I recover to snickers, and continue my way up to the stage.

"State your name, young man!"

"Alexei Ivashkov." I say smoothly, or at least I think I do. My thoughts are a train car careening out of control.

"Can I call you Alex?" She winks. Nasty.

"No." I say, and that gets a few giggles from the crowd, despite the somber mood of the day.

"Well then." She purses her lips and I can see the rage in her eyes. "Maybe I should go ahead with the females. Maybe I'll get a respectful one!" She ends the sentence on a high note, as if she expects to get a laugh from the crowd as well. She doesn't.

"Celia Macorle!"

I faintly recall this name, but as she heads towards the stage I realize she's a few years younger than me. I think her brother's in my class at school, though. I remember the name Macorle. A few upset sighs come from the district as they stare at the girl who has just joined me on the stage.

She doesn't look upset, just passive. It must be her youth, or maybe how she's attractive. They hate sending the good kids off to their deaths in this district. I guess I could be considered a "good" kid (I'm certainly not bad), but Celia's youth and gender is getting her a bit more sympathy than me.

I hope that'll change in the arena, because I haven't given up yet. I hope the violence-loving mongers of the capitol realize that.

* * *

**This ended in an odd spot, sorry! Make sure to review! Last part of the reapings could be up today!**

**Ok, so who was your favorite featured tribute of this chapter? How about out of everyone so far? **

**Likes? Thoughts? Rants? Raves? Let me know!**

**Points have been updated on my profile!**

_**radx**_


	6. Ties (reapings iv, districts 10-12)

**The Reapings pt.4**

**Districts 10-12**

**10**

**Salta Mansone (17)**_**athenagal01**_

The hollow clang of my foot as I take the final step up to the reaping stage reverberates up into my ears, almost bending my vision. What would they do, if I collapsed here? It would be a public nightmare for the capitol, people might argue that I wasn't fit for being reaped. What would they do then? Would they send someone else to their deaths? No, they'd probably work some of their capitol magic on me and pronounce me good to go.

Thank god my thoughts aren't censored. Yet.

"State your full name and age?" The perky twenty-something with a tight braided bun on her head squeaks. This is my escort. The thought disgusts me.

"Didn't you just say it?" I stare evenly into the crowd. I don't expect a laugh, and I don't get one. Hardly an eighth of the crowd in front of me recognizes me. Probably less than a sixteenth actually know my name. And of that eighth, most don't associate me. To them, I am the lesbian. The snarky bad-tempered teenager with the dropout mom. The mistake. Sometimes: the hard-working girl with a hard life.

Most of the kids my age don't get me. They taunt me of my heritage, or rather: my lack thereof. I'll admit it: I have no idea who my father was. My mother only saw a flash of blonde hair. All of the kids my age think it's oh so hilarious that I'm the product of a rape. That's what makes her lesbian, they say, that's why she works so hard every day after school. Rosie's different, but I'm not going to start thinking about that now.

"State your name and age!" Bun says again, this time her eyes narrowing quite a bit.

"Fine, I will, since you didn't pronounce it right the first time." I hiss, positive that the sentence is too low to be picked up by the microphone. Might as well get a head start hating these capitol people.

"Saal-tah Man-soney." I fasten my gray gaze onto Bun's likely artificial blinding-blue eyes. "Age Sev-uhn teen."

"Thanks!" She's going off of a script, I can tell. Otherwise she'd be fuming. "May I pronounce District 10 with their newest female tribute, _Salt_-ah Manstone." She purposely mispronounces my name. There's a light spattering of applause and then she's onto the boys.

I don't particularly want to see which dashing male (notice the sarcasm) I'll be forced to fight to the death against in a week. So I squeeze my eyes shut and manage to block out the name as Bun says it. I'll know the name soon enough.

As I turn to shake the hands of my co-tribute I find no strong-callused hand at my level. I barely crack my eyes open and tilt my head down to find in front of me a _boy_. A young boy. Twelve at most.

Headed. To. His. Death.

Oh dear, what has life come to?

**11**

**Synthia Craul (district 11 mentor)**

Oh joy.

Oh joy.

Oh joy.

The capitol time of year.

Oh joy.

Oh joy.

Oh joy.

Torture never ends.

Two more kids sent to their deaths

Oh joy.

Oh joy.

Oh joy.

It's reaping day again.

Oh joy.

Oh joy.

Oh joy.

I repeat this as I go about my daily reaping day chores. Wake up (oh joy) to the squawking of a prep team assigned to me (oh joy). They practically push me into the shower (oh joy), setting the fixtures to scalding hot and pouring acidic body wash over every inch of my skin (the capitol time of year). My hair is straightened by a foul lotion (oh joy), my (fake) nails are sanded on (oh joy), and my legs are exfoliated to the point of pain (the torture never ends).

They turn on the news, chattering about how flour bag ten has been chosen this year (two more kids sent to their deaths). It's ridiculous how they do things here in district eleven. Since we're by far the largest district, they divide the hundreds of thousands of slips (averaging three hundred thousand a year, oh joy) by twenty flour sacks. It's simple, if they randomly pick the sack that has your name in it, you're in the reaping (oh joy). You get sent a letter (oh joy), like I did six years ago (oh joy), ordering you to be in the reaping square on the thirtieth of June (it's reaping day again). It's a sense of panic, truly (oh joy). When I was reaped (oh joy) I was in bag twenty as well (an omen, oh joy).

In all seriousness, I remember thinking that I was practically going to be the only one in the square that day. That I would be picked no matter what.

I was picked. And I won, to the surprise of Pollen, my mentor of that day and age. Pollen is retired for a year; one of the other three males will take his place for now. I don't get that luxury. To this date, I am the single female victor of district eleven. No breaks for me in the foreseeable future.

I should be thankful, I guess. I am the latest victor of district eleven, so I haven't had to witness too much of the horror that is mentoring. I've watched ten kids of my district die so far. Not bad at all, according to the mentors I've met in the capitol.

Today I will meet number eleven and number twelve. I will watch them die in a little more than one week's time. I'm not as pessimistic as I sound; I just like to plan for the worse. The first year I mentored was the worst. I went in thinking that surely one would win, and then both died within ten minutes of the opening gong.

About one hour later, number eleven and twelve have names.

But I'm not any more hopeful than I was.

I will watch number eleven and twelve die.

If I don't, it will be a miracle.

**12**

**Brees Coldmay (14) splendeur**

"Get a move on." A peacekeeper barks near my ear and I instinctively skitter forwards, jumping practically onto a small boy steps ahead of me in line.

"I'm sorry." I whisper. I don't know why I'm whispering, but the boy smiles kindly and smiles to say it's all right. I wonder if he's nervous at all. I am, obviously, if a peacekeeper four feet away sends me jumping in fear.

"Next." An automatic voice calls over my line and the boy in front of me steps forward.

"Last name." A real voice this time, a peacekeeper, growls.

"Sarrow."

"First name."

"Peat."

"Age."

"12."

I vaguely have an idea of who this kid is now. I think his family owns the bakery… or is it the butchery?

"Blood from finger or arm?"

"Finger." Peat answers, and the peacekeeper rams his pinkie with an electronic reading device.

"Peat Sarrow: attendance marked." The automatic voice returns. "Next."

"Last name." The harsh woman barks.

"Coldmay." I try not to whimper, trying not to let the harsh voice get to me.

"First name."

"Brees. S." I say.

"Age."

"14."

"Finger or arm?"

"Arm. No finger!" I stammer, holding out my pinkie. The machine surprisingly doesn't hurt, and after a millisecond the automatic voice is confirming my attendance.

I'm now free in the square. This is terrifying.

Even now, this being my third time in the reaping, I fear the same as I did when I was a frail twelve-year-old.

Stumbling past the twelves (I spot Peat wiggling in beside a pack of blondes like him) and the thirteens, I duck under the fourteen-year marker and stand somberly. I can see a few of my friends on the other side, but honestly: today I'd rather be alone.

Soon enough, the video's finished playing and Offred, our awful escort of fifteen years, is squeaking out a hello and swirling her hand around in the girl's bowl. I have three slips in that bowl. Three slips. Three slips. Three slips.

As she forms the first syllable of the name I find myself cowering instinctively. Is it me?

"Carminilia Delucan." Offred smiles and claps. "Come on up, dear."

Relief surges over me like a wave and I have to clutch the railing as to not fall over. I'm not in the games. Not this year, at least.

I half-watch the girl with the long blonde hair reach the stage. I'm so delirious with relief that I hardly notice that I don't know this girl. By the looks of her, she appears to be merchant, but there are only so many families who live in the town: she's not one of them.

"Next, boys!" Offred squeaks and I listlessly continue to wonder about the girl on the stage. For one thing: her name didn't sound like district twelve. It sounded ornate, fancier than our common names of nature and plants.

"Peat Sarrow!"

Oh no. The boy that was in front of me. The butcher's kid, or was it the bakers? I should know, truly, but all of the blonde hair makes it hard for me to tell us merchants apart.

Peat is trying to maintain a smile on his face. It's not working. I hear an anguished cry in the distance. His mother. Oh.

I don't know this boy of late.

Even so, I feel like it is I who has been picked.

* * *

***dances***

**reapings are over! **

**next are probably goodbyes. I'll select those that will be interesting. There will probably only be about one chapter for goodbyes. **

**thoughts? concerns? hopes? dreams? **

**let me know!**

** x**


	7. Strain (goodbyes)

**sorry for:**

**- the wait**

**- changing the names of Chase's sisters (Clara!)**

* * *

**Goodbyes**

**District 2 Male**

**Chase Rivars (18)****_ lydiamartins/ailes du neige_**

I'm not expecting many visitors today.

Correct I am, as the peacekeeper snidely mentions to me as I look up to the door opening, that these are my only visitors.

Unsurprisingly, my two twin sisters are the ones to squeeze past the domineering man.

"Got something to say?" I start to stand up in response to the peacekeeper's poorly concealed jab. "Say it to my face, then-" I intend to continue my sentence until Marcie, the blonde (and significantly stronger) half of the twins places her hand over my mouth. For a second I struggle, and then stiffly sit back down. She's right, Marcie is. Now is not the time to unleash my anger-prone tendencies, opportunities will come soon enough.

"Fifteen minutes." The peacekeeper nods, shooting me a look that suggests pity of an offensive sort. I almost stand back up again, slight rage flooding my features, but Marcie & Kaele place a hand each on my arms and hold me down slightly. This is protocol, to them. My uncle owes his life to them, many times over.

As soon as the door is shut I turn to look reluctantly at the twins on either side of me. They'll be disappointed. They didn't want me to volunteer, and I'm sure they didn't like my harsh words to my fellow tribute, Breccia, on the stage.

"She's 100% likely going to be in the same alliance with you, Chase. Don't piss her off!" Kaele's words prove my thought.

"Fine, fine. I'll try my best." I murmur, leaning back on the couch. My sisters are the only thing I care for, now. I must try to obey at least a few of their suggestions.

Marcie and Kaele alternate in spitting recommendations and orders at me for the next few minutes, all of which I obediently nod my head to. If I'm not going to come home, their last chance to be with me must be positive.

It's only when I'm positive that there's only a few minutes remaining that I bring up the topic of our uncle.

"He's not coming, is he?" I say, interrupting Kaele mid-sentence (prattling about some inane thing, I'm sure).

"He didn't say anything-"

"He's not. He's probably drunk, and you know it!" I hear my voice rise in volume and I attempt to stop the words flowing out from my mouth, but it's no use. "He doesn't care if I live or die. He doesn't care about any of us!"

"Chase!" Marcie says sharply, cutting through my rambling. "He's been our caretaker for fifteen years, show him some respect."

"It's awfully hard to, but we have to do it." Kaele says, anxiously braiding her black hair back over her shoulder in it's usual style. "He's not coming today, but I know he cares about us. He does, he has to. I think that's why he hides behind the drink, you know Mom and him must have been close, for him to take us in like that. Otherwise we would've ended up in the community home."

We've been over this many times, but for some reason Kaele's words now calm me. My shoulders shrug back to normal and I feel the blood drain from my face.

I'm very lucky the arena won't require me to calm down from my rages, because I wouldn't be able to without Kaele or Marcie.

Truthfully, I couldn't lead a normal life without them.

**Cordelia Morgan (16) ****_tenderhearts_**

"In here." The peacekeeper announces to me, pointing at a mahogany door carved in the likeness of a net. The sight calms me, even though I hardly have any anxiety in the first place. I don't fear what comes next. Why would I volunteer, if I did? No, my move towards the stage was calculated. I am to be the next hunger games victor.

"Your first visitors have arrived and will be in shortly." I nod to the peacekeeper and enter the room. The room is bathed in luxury, an odd contrast to my ratty jean shorts (the one's my mom claim are too short) and the thin see-through black shirt I wear over my tight stretchy bikini top. Truthfully, I'm supposed to show "respect" for the capitol in what I wear for reaping day, but hey- I'm going to be providing them entertainment in less than a week, why not start now? Besides, the only "respectable" thing I own is this red dress that used to be my mother's, and the thing has sleeves. I would roast in this heat! Besides, a dress would hinder my running ability, which is the true test of reaping day.

District four traditionally has less of a volunteer crunch than district's one or two, but it's still a formidable race. In the heat of the moment I think I remember five girls (including me) really giving a go for the stage, and about ten more half-heartedly following them. Thanks to my comfy outfit, and- let's face it, my supremacy over my fellow trainees, I was the first to the stage. No one was surprised.

I need this win. For me, and my family. Well, need is a strong word, maybe reallyreallyreally want would be a better term. For as long as I can remember, my family has practically never had anything we wanted. We aren't the poorest, but we certainly weren't the poorest, either. And now- with the twins being born last year money is tighter than ever.

If I win, my family will be bathed in riches. If I loose (it's hard to think of this occurring, I don't think it possible) I will have made a grave mistake, as my father will loose a deckhand and quite possibly will have to hire another one, cutting into his profits. Whether that sum will be even with my training fees and the cost of the food I consume, it's hard to tell.

But that won't happen. I will emerge victorious if it's the last thing I ever do.

**Switch Randsom (17) ****_Catching Fireflies_**

"But you won't like- hookup with her, right?"

"No, Roxy, I won't-" I start, pulling her closer to my abdomen, "-that time has come and gone, you know that."

"I just hate the idea that you've been with so many girls." Roxy spouts, leaning closer to me as she speaks. I gently pry one of her chocolate colored curls from my lips before responding.

"You know you're the best." I wonder what she would do if she knew those were the exact words I've said to countless others. Would she leave me? No, they usually never do. I'm typically the one to break it off after two or three weeks, after bed gets boring and I'm itching to "switch" to the next.

Roxy's lips on mine is my answer. We make out for a few minutes until a knock on the door suggests that Roxy's allotted five minutes is up. She immediately bursts into tears, her baby blue eyes squeezing shut as she clings to me. The peacekeeper physically has to pry her off of me, her grip is so strong I surely will have fingernail imprints on my back. As soon as she's gone, I sit up, wondering who will come next. Roxy was my nineteenth visitor. The others have been random, family, groups of friends, teachers etcetera, etcetera. Who will be my twentieth?

"Hello!" A sharp squeal answers my question. I lean back in confusion as Korka, my fellow tribute, bounces into the room followed by the peacekeeper. I cock an eyebrow at the peacekeeper as he explains.

"She asked, and I couldn't find a rule that would suggest it's against protocol."

"Alright?" It's more of a question than a statement as Korka lands on the couch next to me and throws her arms around my shoulders.

"You know what this means, right? We're going to spend so much time together!"

This is going to be a long week.

**There go goodbyes! I was contemplating doing another chapter for goodbyes, but they usually aren't my best work so I thought I'd do some other in-depth character analysis in the train chapters (but not all of the characters, be warned!). So, as always: thoughts? concerns? hopes? wants? complaints?**

**One question: What was your favorite character from this chapter? Chase, Cordelia, Switch, or (lol) Korka? **

**thanks!**

**splendeur/radieux/bridget**


	8. Ire (train i)

**Please note that I do not abide by Canon rules 100% of the time. Meaning: there could very well be three victors of district 12 in my eyes. Don't count them out.**

**Sadly, I've had to finally squeeze in district eleven. I know no one wanted me to do it, but it simply had to be done. **

**I just love sarcasm, don't you? ;)**

* * *

**Train pt.1**

**District 1 Male**

_**Anatase Rhodochrosite (16) xDisgraceful Avengerx**_

After the visiting hour is complete, they arrive at my room yet again to rope me into going somewhere else. One particularly eager peacekeeper tries to follow directly behind me (as if a district one tribute, who volunteered, would try to escape). I quickly put a halt to that by randomly stopping in the doorway of my visiting room, causing him to ram into my back.

"Hey! Get a move on, do I have to restrain you?" He chirps, surely puffing out his chest as he imagines how macho he is. Not.

I know instinctively that he is lifting his hands in order to shove me forward and I whip around, catching both of his wrists simultaneously. The fear in his eyes assures me that he knows I can and will snap his wrists if needed.

"Keep your hands off of me." I say smoothly, not the slightest hint of a growl surfacing in my tones. He nods mutely, and I drop his wrists from my grip and proceed. The other peacekeepers watch this exchange with no attempts at interference. They might not be exactly afraid of me, but they know the ramifications of angering any of us. Us, of course meaning Silver, me or any of our followers.

We run the largest gang of district one, averaging about three hundred "declared" members on a good day, with more undercover in rival groups. It's not our numbers that make us strong, no, it's more about our knack for raiding peacekeeper hideouts and retrieving fire-arms and various monetary compensations. In result of this we've managed to take over a warehouse on the edge of town, customized to harbor fifty of our highest-ranking members. That's been my home for the last two years. See, the gang's been around for eight years (Silver and I only took over control after Knack, the old leader, volunteered for the hunger games and fell to a district two monger), and I've been a member for four, but it's only been my home for two years.

That's how long it's been since the incident. I don't feel any remorse for killing my father. That's an abrupt way to put it, I guess, but I truly don't. He was of no use to me anyway, always wrapped up in his work. It was always work. It was never about family. At least that's how I saw it.

Silver's technically the leader of our gang. He has more behind-the-scenes power, but I'm the one that's always on site. You see, Silver has a proper family, with a proper mom and dad that have no clue what he (or his sister, for that matter) are up to. Ivory Montgomery, Silver's eldest sister, ran away two years ago at the age of eighteen after snapping from all the pressure the Montgomery's placed on her for training. They expected her to volunteer, and she wasn't that type. So she became a full-time member of the gang around the same time I did after the incident, leaving Silver at home to fend for himself. The Montgomery's expect Silver to volunteer as well, next year. It's clear that he will most likely follow his sister's path, and disappear from his family's home a week before the reaping. Unlike the Montgomery's, the Rhodochrosite's do not care about what happens to their son. I do not exist, to them. It goes both ways: to me, they don't exist either. It's easier to pretend that I murdered my older brother and my mother too, in some twisted way.

I'm like that, though, I'm twisted.

They haul me over to the train station, to a sea of flashing cameras and smiling capitol reporters. I don't return the favor, instead staring at them in stony silence. I hate them. They're all useless weaklings. Panem would be better off without them. At this thought, I laugh. This perplexes them into putting down their cameras for a moment, and then launching into an insistent photographic attack. I think I was laughing at the reaping, as well. Does this confuse them? Good.

After about ten minutes of this, I'm guided on to the train (along with my blonde female counterpart, who I haven't even thought about at all). The door clicks shut behind me. Ah! This is it. I won't be back in district one for at least a week or two. When I arrive at home, I will be victorious.

There is no alternative, after all.

I laugh once more.

**District 11 Female **

**Acacia Willows _(13) lydiamartins_**

"Right-e-o then, chop chop! It's time to go, dears, we've got a long way to the capitol, we do!" Java, our capitol attendee reminds as she pushes Dante (I believe that's his name) and I towards the train door. Whether her strange sentence is directed at us, or at the cameras blocking our way – it's hard to tell. Anyway, she successfully pushes us through the door and we stand in the small entryway of the furthest-back cart.

"My my." Java tuts as she twists my Dante's shoulders so he stands directly beside me. Her brown hair (a surprisingly natural choice for one of her heritage) is crazy, each strand bending at sharp angles. Her honey-colored eyes seem bright against her dark skin, they are most likely unnatural. "Have we got some work to do!"

She first affixes her attention on me. "You're cute enough, being thirteen and all, but the dirt caught in your hair must go. Don't tell me they make you work on a holiday, hm?"

I'm momentarily struck speechless by her generalization of the reaping as a holiday, when it is certainly not. I was never one to openly criticize the capitol in the fields, but I know that reaping day is most definitely a sad event.

"I went out in the fields early today. They-they calm me." I say, trying not to raise my hands to my head. I thought I had combed out all of the dirt after getting back home.

"And does vegetable-picking, or fruit for that matter, require you to douse your head with dirt? Oh well, at least it isn't noticeable from far." It seems unnecessary to tell her at this point that the dirt is from climbing my way down into my secret hideout.

"And you!" The escort howls. "What is with your hair? I, for one, can recognize a bad dye job when I see it."

I turn now, to glance at Dante Spardat, my fellow tribute. Java tells the truth, his hair is white (and I mean white) down until about a quarter inch above his scalp.

"Sor-ee." Dante says sarcastically. "Didn't see the importance of bleaching my hair this morning. Truly wish I had. Really."

Java continues, ignoring Dante's wit. "I assume you're fit enough, but really, I cannot get over the hair. Just wait until your stylist gets a look at that." With this, she sighs. "Alright, both of you will find your compartments three cars up, on opposite sides of the hallway. Please feel free to clean yourself up. You will be alerted to when dinner is to be served. If you feel hunger beforehand please feel free to call room service. Very well then."

I stand motionless as she flounces out of the entryway, as does Dante.

"Any idea what room service is?" He proposes.

"Nope." I answer with a smile.

"Very well then." He nods, imitating Java perfectly. "Until dinner, then, Acacia."

"Alright, Dante." I answer with equal verve. At this, we both crack a smile, and then, without a signal, we both start down the wood-paneled hallway.

Maybe these first few days won't be so bad after all.

**District 12 Female **

**Carminilia Darlucan _(18) becauseofkillianjones_**

"Dinner Carminilia!" Offred is knocking at my door. I stare up listlessly at the white wood until finally she turns the knob to make sure I'm all right. Ha! As if.

"Dinner is ready!" I nod, and she turns to leave. I know I make her uncomfortable. I wonder if she knows where I come from, or even half of the story. The uncertainty in her eyes says she probably does.

Before she can completely disappear, I force myself to open my mouth.

"The boy from district two, this year." I state, standing up from my bed. "Who is it? What's his name?" Even I know that it can't possibly be who I'm hoping it is, he'd most likely never volunteer, my heart still beats a little bit faster.

"I'm not technically supposed to tell you that." Offred starts, and I clench my fists. "I will, however. His name, I believe, is Chase Rivars."

All of the hope dissolves from my chest. I don't even know why. I don't wish the games on Max. There was a time I would have wished them on myself (in other words, I would have volunteered) but Max changed me.

"Thanks." I choke, hoping my discomfort isn't too obvious, and trail after Offred as she walks towards the dining cart. Inside sits Anodora Pyker, district twelve's only victor to this date. Victor of the sixth annual hunger games, she's probably in her mid-fifties, but (probably) thanks to copious capitol-made measures her blonde "merchant" (I've picked up the term from a year of district twelve) hair and pale blue eyes remain as though she's only thirty or forty, at most. Its thoroughly creepy, if you ask me.

"Well, here we go again." She clips in an overly-capitol-affected accent. "How do you plan to die, dear? Best be prepared.

The sentence shocks me into silence, and I look at Offred in confusion. I've never encountered victors from outer districts in close meetings. I've had a few meetings with victors-turned-trainers from district two, but never (obviously) any contact with those of less-fortunate districts. Do they all have this negative outlook on life?

Finally, after I realize that I'm expected to answer her question, I purse my lips and respond.

"I don't."

"Ah! A fighter, are we?" Anodora throws back her head and laughs. "Should've known, after seeing your file. Beat up some peacekeepers, huh? Twelve's your punishment?"

Offred takes a shocked breath at my side, confirming that she at least didn't know my entire story.

"Well, well. We might get another victor out of district twelve, then, right?" Anodora adds. "Obviously, we couldn't play you as a hidden card, you're far too obviously trained to be mistaken for a twelve brat."

I decide to treat her sentence as a compliment. "Thanks."

"Oh, you're welcome, dear Carminilia. Long name, huh? Got a nickname?"

"You can call me Carminilia." I say, narrowing my eyes. No one's ever gotten to call me by a nickname, except Max.

"Well, Carly, you can call me Annie." Her blue eyes meet mine, in a challenge of sorts. Or is it an offer?

Is she trying to help me? My district-two heritage is telling me not to accept it. She's an outer district winner. We were always taught in district two that all outer-district wins are flukes. They are allowed when careers make mistakes.

Something about this woman makes me want to accept her help, despite her winning being a result of a careers fluke (now that I think about it, were there even careers back when she won?). So I do.

"Deal."

* * *

**Three more tributes: in-depth descriptions. Do you like this style over my past stories which were a little more vague? Please let me know!**

**Also - please make sure you check out the past chapter. These were back-to-back updates. **

**Remember! Reviews count as points (non-submitters, please message me about setting up an account if you'd like to review for points that could be used later to sponsor tributes). Points have been updated, although it might take a while for my profile page to reset. **

***blinks eyelashes slowly* review? **

**splendeur**


	9. Licit (train ii)

**Train pt.2**

**District 8 Male**

**Lukas Tailor _(18) subliminal shady_**

Dinner is something I've never experienced in my life. I mean, I know the capitol lives a life of greater luxury than anyone in the districts, but _this_. This is amazing. That's not the right word. I probably don't have the right word even in my vocabulary to describe the food.

I attempt to use my utensils, and attempt to savor each bite as though I have time, but before long I toss the fork and knife over one shoulder (Spots, our escort, sighs at this) and dig in with my hands, eating handful after handful. Saeko has been doing this from the start of the meal. I suspect she's heard of a fork and a knife, and maybe she knows how to use them, but she doesn't bother. In fact, I don't look at her more than I have to, the glint in her eye scares me. It's clear that I'm not the only one, Spots avoids her in conversation and both of our mentors seemed more focused on me.

"So you say you're the tailor's son, eh?" Ulleigh, the female half of the mentors asks as she pops a piece of purple cheese into her mouth. "Can you handle a needle? Might be useful in the arena." Her sarcasm confuses me, so I stay quiet, instead reaching to slice a piece of the purple cheese off the block. My fingers have just grazed the cheese when the knife nearly slices the tops off. I look up in shock, and quickly recoil as Saeko gives a simpering smile to me and proceeds to chop a piece off for herself.

"Sorry, bad humor, I guess." Ulleigh comments after I don't respond. "Got any family?"

"Well, yeah." I say. "I got a mother and a father."

"Siblings?"

"Not anymore." I speak calmly and clearly, seeing Saeko eyeing me. I must remember to lock my compartment door tonight. I don't want to die before the arena. Everyone at school has heard about her… _habits_ with males.

"Not anymore? You have to elaborate on that, son." Jorden, our other mentor exclaims. He's a fat man, with a large rounded stomach and a jolly look on his face. I'd never think he actually went into the arena if I hadn't seen it myself on one of the old hunger-games re-runs.

"She died when I was twelve." I say stubbornly, not wanting to announce to the table about my family.

They'll find out soon enough.

**District 10 Male**

**Markus Lavigne _(12) _**

"I'm the only twelve-year-old." I announce to the crowd after the District 11 recap has ended. "So far!"

"No need to announce it, dear." Havana, our escort coos to me without turning away from the TV. "Let's watch, shall we?"

"It's almost over and I'm bored. I don't want or need to see my competitors on television." My district partner, Salta, announces. "I'll see them soon enough."

"Well, if you aren't going to shut up and watch, then both of you little brats can leave!" Havana's speech is a little slurred, and I suspect the wine has gotten to her. "Especially you, you little-"

Salta and I dash out of the compartment before she can continue, and then we walk down the corridor towards our rooms in silence. As Salta reaches her door, she glances at me, and then quickly looks away as she shuts her red door. I think I saw pity in her gaze.

My emotions are conflicted as I open my own door and walk into the bathroom. Even though I had one of those standing baths (I think they call them "showers") earlier, before dinner, I can't resist stepping into the glass container again and turning on the warm water.

Picking randomly, I choose a bottle called "Conditioner" and slather the sweet-smelling silver liquid through my long-ish light brown hair. Even after the conditioner has left my hair I stand in the rain-like water, relishing every drop. I might as well enjoy it here while it lasts.

As soon as I've dried off, I slide into a pair of black boxers and a loose white crewneck. I'm full three times through, but I can't resist ordering cookies (a delicacy I've never tried) and warm milk from the "room service." The food arrives in less than five minutes and I thank the attendant excitedly as I dig into the food. They haven't brought a glass, like I've expected, but instead a great big faceted crystal jug! In addition, they've brought a dozen cookies! A dozen! I wonder if they know how much a dozen cookies goes for in one of District 8's bakeries, or even the black market! They surely don't, otherwise they wouldn't trust me with a treasure such as this.

I greedily drain the jug first, and then dig into the cookies. They have chocolate on the inside! I've only ever tasted chocolate once, when a high-class boy at my school dropped a piece out of his backpack and I was able to scavenge it. I usually don't steal, but higher-class boys like him never eat off of the floor. Apparently, to them it's dirty once it touches dirt.

I have to leave six cookies on the tray, I'm so stuffed I can hardly move. I can't stand seeing them go to waste, so I grab the golden tray and set them outside of Salta's door. After knocking, I run back to my room and peek out the door as Salta opens the door curiously and sees the cookies. She looks around, sees the crack in my doorway and smiles.

'Thanks' she mouths. In response, I smile.

**District 12 Male**

**Peat Sarrow _(12) caitlinroo_**

"Up and at them, son!" Offred howls through my door and I reluctantly sit up from my bed as she storms through the door. "Ah, good, you're up." I'm tempted to joke that if someone slept through her wake-up, they'd be dead, but I don't.

"Get dressed in something, preferably black, and meet us in the dining car for breakfast."

"Alright." Offred is gone just as fast as she arrived. I reluctantly leave the heat of the blankets on my bed and stand up. My blonde hair is sticking up on end, but it's remarkably cleaner than usual, so I just smooth it down as I choose a pair of black shorts and a black v-neck shirt.

I'm not exactly hungry, but I'm eager for the delicacies that are sure to come at breakfast. I hurry down the short corridor to the dining cart, and practically jump into my seat next to Carminilia.

All of them are already eating, so I hurry to catch up. I eat at least five of these delicious buttery biscuits with berry preserves, and they have to order a new batch of bacon after I descend on the plate. Back at home bacon was a luxury, here it seems like it's never-ending.

As soon as I'm stuffed to my limit, I wander close to the window, only to stumble back in shock as the windows blacken. The electrical lights are still on, but the windows only show the rarely changing darkness of rock.

"The mountains." I murmur, excited. Just beyond here, the capitol awaits!

* * *

**Alright, I'll try and update the point totals soon. For now, here's a new chapter! **

**PSA: If any of y'all are warriors fans, please check out my third account: Clearflight. It has two stories up currently. **

**Who was your favorite character of this story? **

** .cle **


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